


Cloaked In Shadows

by auberus, Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: A Cave For a Tower [4]
Category: Highlander: The Series, Sorcerer's Apprentice (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Don’t copy to another site, GFY, Gen, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17673152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auberus/pseuds/auberus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: Nimue and Methos meet in an English tavern, and travel together for a while.





	Cloaked In Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unedited.

Nimue keeps to the quietest corner of the tavern's common room, the shadows making it easier to remain unnoticed, and her heavy cloak hiding the fact she's female from the male patrons. She'd prefer not to have to discourage them in painful ways from thinking she's available for their pleasure, money or no money. Particularly since that's likely to draw attention to her that she'd as soon avoid.

She nods thanks when one of the young women serving meals and drinks brings her dinner and the ale she'd bespoken, and presses an extra coin into her hand to provide a more tangible gratitude. Taking a healthy bite of the still-warm bread as she continues to watch the room around her, and the patrons who crowd the tables.

When the door opens to let in someone else, she looks and studies the man. Tall and lean, with a nose that wouldn't be out of place on the Romans who have only recently left the isles. Damp, no doubt from the rain that had been threatening earlier and had convinced Nimue to stop here rather than ride on. There are few tables with empty places, and none so uncrowded and quiet as her own, so it's little surprise that he makes his way toward her. So long as he's polite, she supposes she'll have to tolerate the company.

It's the rain that persuades Methos to stop for the evening, and the lack of another Immortal presence that convinces him to spend the night under a roof instead of under a bush. The relative peace that had ruled between Immortals during Rome's golden years has given way to the increased violence that always seems to plague Immortal interactions during periods of chaos among mortals. A few centuries ago, an encounter between Immortal strangers was as likely to end peacefully as in a challenge: these days, though, a fight is almost inevitable. Methos has heard younger Immortals - not that there are any other kind, not any more - say that the Gathering is coming, but he knows better, or hopes he does.

The Roman departure has damaged not only the roads, but the local standards of cleanliness as well. Methos ignores the usual stares and the usual smells as he makes his way to a mostly empty table. The only person sitting there is too well-wrapped for Methos to be able to judge anything about them but size.

In another Immortal, that would have made him nervous indeed. As the person in question is mortal, though, it piques his curiosity instead.

He orders food and turns down the offer of other favors, settling onto the bench and nodding politely at his dinner companion.

"Salve." The Romans may have retreated, but Latin is still the language most use, at least on the road.

Nimue watches the man from under the hood of her cloak, reaching for her mug as he comes closer. Taking a sip of the ale, and contemplating pushing her hood back enough to invite conversation. He doesn't seem to smell of anything save damp wool, though she could be mistaken, considering the background odor of the tavern's other patrons.

When he greets her in Latin, she lets a smile quirk up her lips. "Salve," she responds in kind, reaching up to push her hood back just enough to let the dim light touch her face after she sets her ale down. "Of Rome, then? Or merely familiar with their language?"

"Latin is too useful not to learn, I'm afraid," Methos says ruefully, smiling to cover his surprise at finding a woman alone in this sort of establishment. That she's managed to remain alone suggests that there's more to her than meets the eye: most women would have acquired a 'protector' by now, whether they wanted one or not. "Actually, I studied in Rome." It's a dying custom in this part of the world, but not entirely extinct, and serves as a good excuse for Methos if he slips and forgets that he shouldn't know something. "I'm Owain."

"Nimue." She takes a bite of her meal, studying Owain for a long moments while she chews. And glancing at other patrons whose gazes have followed the new arrival's progress to her table. One was watching her with an acquisitive eye, and glancing at Owain speculatively. As if weighing his chances of dislodging her dinner companion, and insisting she remain with him instead.

"Were you merely a scholar, or were you a soldier at some point?" Best to know if he'll be able to defend himself from the idiot who thought she might be available, or if she should discourage the man now. "Because if the latter, you'll need it," she adds, tilting her head fractionally toward the idiot before she reached for her mug for another sip of ale.

Methos follows her gaze and sighs. "Don't worry. I'm more effective than you'd think." There are times when he envies his brothers their ability to be effortlessly frightening. The idiot about to complicate his life wouldn't have considered bothering Kronos. He turns a flat, unfriendly stare on the man, hoping he can cow the moron into backing off before any blood is spilled. "Whatever it is you're thinking, don't," he warns, shifting so that the hilt of his sword is no longer covered by his cloak.

With a grumble of irritation, the idiot subsides for now, but Nimue doesn't think he'll remain so if he encounters her alone. She'll either have to remain with Owain for now, or make use of magic enough that she'll attract attention of one or another sorcerer. For now, though, she gives Owain a wry smile of thanks.

"It's good to know you're more effective than you look at first glance." Nimue fishes her knife from her belt to pick out choicer bits of her meal than she can with the spoon she's using. "Though I apologize for the necessity."

"You've no need to apologize." Methos leans back as the serving girl deposits his supper on the table. He hands her a coin with a murmur of thanks before continuing. "I have no desire to have my meal interrupted by an idiot, whatever the reason." After a moment's hesitation, he continues, "I will admit to wondering what you're doing here alone."

"Because this was the best place to stop before the rain began." Nimue chewed on a lump of what she hoped was mutton. "I travel alone because someone of my skills acquires enemies that do not use merely physical weapons against their enemies. Nor do I require a man to protect me, though I welcome you presence as it will allow me to avoid such things as shall attract the attention of such enemies as I have."

Methos lifts an eyebrow, pausing with a bite of food half way to his mouth. "What sorts of enemies do you possess, then?" he asks. While he isn't opposed to the idea of being camoflauge, he has no intention of volunteering blindly.

"I am a sorceress, Owain. My enemies, likewise, wield magic as you might your sword." Nimue shrugged, taking another bite of her dinner. "And while some would shelter each other because of similarities in philosophy, there are none who quite accept that I think they're all idiots because of their adherence to mutually exclusive philosophies. Hence, my desire not to attract their attention."

Methos makes a face around his mouthful of stew. Neither magic nor those who use it are high on his list of favorite things, mostly because magic users tend to have the imagination and the experience to notice that there's something unusual about him.

"And you don't worry that announcing yourself so casually will get you burned at the stake?" he asks.

A slow smile curls Nimue's lips, and she sets her knife down a moment. "Tell me, Owain. Do you think any mundane could honestly expect to keep a sorceress captive long enough to burn her? Or, if by some incredible streak of luck, they did so, or decided to summarily attempt execution, they could manage to do so without magic?"

"I think that it's not a risk I would want to take if I were a sorcerer," he says. "Better overly cautious than tied to a stake, or to the rack. All it takes is one clever idea that gets past your defenses."

"True enough." Nimue shrugs, picking up her knife to continue poking at her dinner. "Still, the risks are minimal, particularly as I intend to travel on as soon as morning arrives, weather permitting or not." A brief gesture in the direction of the idiot from earlier with her knife-point is enough reason why. "If I must, I'll travel on sooner, though having found someone who has sense to speak to, I'd prefer not to have to as yet."

"I'm flattered," Methos says, smiling at her. "Truth be told, this is a more interesting conversation than I'd expected to have tonight."

"Considering the quality of the local patrons? I'd imagine the conversation would be unforgivably crude when it wasn't terribly boring." Nimue returns his smile with a soft chuckle. "Certainly what I've overheard since my arrival has been one or the other."

"It's not Rome," Methos admits. "You'll get the same sorts of conversation in most provincial inns in most countries in the world, I expect."

"With the only difference being the language in which they're held." Nimue tilts her head at him a moment, picking up her mug for another good pull of ale. "Tell me about Rome, if you would? I've never been, and I suspect that it is even now past its prime enough that I should not care so greatly to go there as to any other place."

Methos shrugs. "It's a city, like any city. In places it's crowded, in some ugly, in some beautiful. It's the center of the empire, so there are people from all over the world, and they bring their foods and their costumes with them."

"More a wonder, though, then what pass for cities in these more provincial places." Nimue tilts her head to one side, absently hunting through the mangled remains of her dinner for more choice morsels. "Though I've not particularly seen much of those, either. I tend to prefer less crowded places, where there are fewer potential collateral casualties if my enemies catch up with me."

Methos nods his understanding. He's only seen two magical duels in his whole life, but those two had been more than enough to allow him to imagine the possibilties for collateral damage. Quickenings have nothing on magic when it comes to destruction.

"Speaking as someone who might end up as part of the damage, it's appreciated."

"There are days when I wonder if it wouldn't be better to establish my own tower to barricade myself into and others out of. Something of that sort would take a more powerful sorcerer to truly shatter." Nimue made a face. "Save then, I would see nothing save the inside of such, because I couldn't dare leave without drawing attention. Better, for now, to keep wandering."

"I can understand the impulse," Methos admits. He's spent centuries on holy ground for that very reason, but apparently it doesn't work that way for magic users. "On the other hand, every time I think I've had enough, I come across something that makes all of it worthwhile."

Nimue nods, picking up her spoon to scoop up a good portion of her dinner to chew over while she thinks a moment. "There's always something new to learn or see or do. I just wish certain sorcerers hadn't divided our world and made it impossible for someone like me to just live in it. Still, if I avoid too much attention, I can continue to wander until I figure out a way to do so from the safety of a tower."

"What happened, if you don't mind telling me?" Methos asks. He'd noticed at the time that *something* was going on, but had never been able to find out what. The only sorcerer who'd found out what he was had always looked at him slightly askance afterwards, and he hadn't exactly been anxious to talk about sorcery even beforehand.

"Is happening, actually." Nimue makes a face, and pushes away the rest of her food, her appetite deserting her entirely. "Merlin and Morgana are still both among the living, and still acting like they're half a century younger than they are."

Pulling a small cloth out of one of her belt-pouches, she cleans her knife to return it to where it belonged, and does the same with her spoon. Silent as she contemplates the words to use to put the conflict as succinctly as she might.

"Merlin believes sorcerers are servants, and should act as such. To serve the greater good, and incidentally, to avoid having mundanes observe magic as much as possible. Secrecy and servitude to protect us and them." She didn't think too highly of that, but then, she'd never been one to gladly serve anyone just for the sake of serving.

"Morgana takes the view that we are masters, to rule the world and all in it. That mundanes are lesser, somehow, and to be controlled. To revel in our magic and have it be everything we are."

Nimue leans forward slightly, her lips twisted in a wry smile. "I think they're both childish fools who can't see beyond their rigid views of the world as absolutes, good and evil, right and wrong. Both have their points, but neither, I think, is entirely correct. Of course, I'm not entirely certain I am, either. All I'm certain of is that both of them, and their followers, think I support the other because I don't hold to their own philosophy."

"Staying neutral can be more dangerous on occasion than choosing sides," Methos acknowledges. "Though I have to admit that for my own sake I hope that Morgana loses. I don't think that I would like to live in the world she would create if she won." He doesn't want to think about what someone with that attitude would consider to be a proper place for Immortals.

"I would wish them both to grow up, and their followers with them, but the world is an imperfect place." Nimue shrugs, leaning back once more, and picking up her mug to drain the last of her ale, at least. "And while I should grant that Merlin's view makes for a safer world for most, I'm afraid it wouldn't truly be safer for one such as me."

She's more and more certain that she'll have to build a tower, a true stronghold, in which to reside and protect herself from the world. And nevermind her craving for travel, to see the world, unless she might manage some way of traveling without the need for her body to leave her tower.

"Would he insist on your living up to his standards?" Methos asks. "And has anyone ever pointed out the hypocrisy in serving mortals - mundanes, rather - while hiding from them?"

"The only time I ever met him descended into a rather rudely-worded shouting match on both our parts." Nimue shakes her head, an amused expression crossing her face a moment. "Though I do not think he would himself actively try to harm me, nor force me to live to his standards, his students I would not all vouch for so heartily. And his disappointment that I will not adhere to his creed is like to make them think of me as someone to be avoided, at best."

She's silent a moment, contemplating his second question. "I do not think he has had that pointed out to him. Nor am I entirely certain he means to serve mundanes - and mortals all, besides those he's chosen to ensure otherwise - when he says to serve the greater good. Indeed, I am uncertain if even he knows what he means by that."

"That phrase is one of the most dangerous in any languages," Methos opines. "Even good men can be persuaded into evil acts if they think the ends are worth it."

"The ends justify the means?" Nimue shakes her head again. "There are some means I would not stoop to for any ends. Though I shall admit that there are few limits to what I would do to myself if I thought the ends worth the sacrifice. But not to others. That is where I draw my own line. And I do not insist that anyone draw their line as I draw my own. They have to decide for themselves what they are unwilling to do to achieve one thing or another."

"I'm...relearning my limits," Methos admits, "or perhaps recreating them." For years, he'd prided himself on having no limits at all, on being willing to do anything, no matter how awful, for no better reason than that he wanted to. Even now, he can't think of anything he wouldn't do if his life were on the line, though he's no longer willing to kill for entertainment.

"A good thing to do every so often, if one isn't limited to a mortal's - or even a sorcerer's - lifespan." Nimue signalls for another mug of ale, then turns her attention back to Owain. "Sometimes, I think, even if one is so limited."

"And what is the limit on a sorcerer's lifespan?" Methos asks casually. It's valuable information, even if he can't think of a use for it at the moment. Hopefully, she'll think his curiosity just that, and never suspect that he might have other reasons for wanting to know.

"I don't know yet." Nimue shrugs, a mischevious smile playing across her lips. "Longer than a mundane life-span, but to what extent? I've not an idea. And with some secrets it is rumored that Merlin has discovered, those limits may be meaningless."

Not the answer Methos had been hoping for - not that he has anything against sorcerers: he just doesn't like the existence of people he's not sure he can kill, especially when there's a chance of running into them after sufficient time has passed to betray him as something out of the ordinary.

Nimue watches Owain with amusement lighting her eyes, though her smile fades slightly into a more neutral expression. "You ask because you are longer lived than a mundane, perhaps even than a sorcerer who does not have Merlin's secrets, yes?" There have been clues in his words, and in his body-language that all say he is something more than he appears at first look. Perhaps even at second or third look, but that only means he'll be interesting for longer.

Methos goes very still, even though he knows it betrays him. That...is not a question he'd expected, though perhaps he should have. He knows there are sorcerers who can see more than they ought, though he's never met one himself. Still, he doesn't like it - doesn't like being seen through so easily.

"It's not polite to ask someone else's age," he says dryly, doing his best to hide just how displeased he actually is.

"I am not asking how old you are." Nimue chuckles, her smile returning for a moment, bright and cheerfully mischievous, before it fades into a more solemn expression. "It is enough to know you are older than I should expect any to attain, myself included. Save the interference of one such as Merlin who knows the secrets of giving long life - and long youth, it is said - to others and to himself."

Methos frowns reflexively at that. That Immortality - or something close to it - can be given like a gift is not a pleasant thought, largely because it makes him wonder if it can be taken away. How much power would a Quickening give someone who could wield it, as opposed to an Immortal who simply possesses one? It's an unpleasant line of speculation, at the very least.

"What makes you think anything of the sort?" he asks, hoping there's a flaw in his mask that he can put to rights. He hates not being able to hide.

"Several things." Nimue shrugs one shoulder. "You smell clean, and not many mundanes bother here and now. You dismiss Rome as merely another city. You didn't immediately assume I required a protector when you realized I was a woman. You said 'mortals' when you asked me about Merlin's hypocrisy. You spoke of recreating your limits. Perhaps some other little things that escaped conscious notice. Little things that add up to something different than a mundane, and you're no sorcerer. It was a reasonable conclusion."

She pauses, looking away for a moment to scan the patrons nearest them. None of them are looking particularly nervous, even those who are within range to hear their conversation. It makes her hope they merely don't understand Latin, rather than that they've decided these two strangers will be entertaining to burn.

"And for Merlin's little gift? Because it was at the root of our shouting match. I think he does intend to use it, though when and for what, I don't know, nor cared to ask."

"You're really far too observant," Methos tells her, but carefully notes everything she says. The necessity of hiding so completely is a relatively new one, and it's an art he's still trying to perfect. "Most people wouldn't have noticed most of that, and fewer still would have been able to put it together and come up with the truth." He lifts his glass in salute. "I'm hoping you'll keep the information to yourself." After all, he's not entirely sure how to go about killing her if she doesn't.

"I have no reason to share that information with anyone. If they want it, they'll have to find it on their own." Nimue accepts the new mug of ale the serving girl brings over, giving her another coin in tip, waiting until the girl's left before speaking again. "And I have to be observant. Recall I'm in the precarious position of thinking both sides of a conflict are idiots."

"True," Methos acknowledges. "Should I be worrying about your attracting attention? I have certain defenses, but they're not infallible." He'd also really rather avoid the sort of sorcerer who thinks of people as toys or tools. He knows better than anyone how dangerous someone who thinks that way can be.

"So long as I don't use magic? Not really. They have to be practically on top of me to realize I'm a sorceress if I avoid magic use altogether. Especially if they're not on par with Merlin or Morgana, and there are precious few who are. Most of whom, as I recall, have perished in this struggle between those two, if primarily at the hands of Morgana and her ilk."

"Good to know." Methos smiles, and lifts a hand to signal for another round. "Which way are you headed?" Now that he knows he won't have extraneous sorcerers dropping into his lap as a result, curiosity is pushing him to stick near her and see what he can learn.

"No where in particular, so long as I keep moving." Nimue shrugs. "West, perhaps, or north."

"If you haven't a particular destination in mind, you're welcome to accompany me. I'm going north, then taking ship for the mainland, provided that the sea isn't too rough." He's not particularly fond of sailing, especially on rough seas, but the same rumors that had sparked his journey northward make continuing east something of a necessity. There aren't many people who know him well enough to come looking for him, and he'd prefer to avoid anyone who does.

"I haven't been off the isles before, so a trip elsewhere would prove interesting." Nimue tilts her head, studying him for a long moment. "I think I'll take your offer." And not merely because the idiot from earlier seems to be starting to eye her again, and has apparently had enough of the rotgut that passes for spirits here to bolster his confidence about confronting Owain over her.

Methos follows her glance to where the man he'd intimidated earlier is standing, swaying slightly thanks to the amount of liquid courage he's consumed. He turns back to Nimue, ostensibly ignoring the man behind him, but keeping an eye on the mugs on the table. Their surface is reflective enough to betray any sudden movement behind him.

"I think we're about to be interrupted," he says, annoyed.

"I wouldn't be surprised if we were." Nimue makes sure she has all her own items once more attached to her in case a swift exit is required, whether because Owain does something unfortunate to the idiot, or because she uses enough magic to draw unwanted attention from any sorcerer within enough range to pick up on the use of magic. "Mundane men such as him have a distressing tendency to think women require their protection, and that they can thus demand favors of them that I'll not be providing any man." Save on her own terms, and she's yet to encounter a man she's entirely certain she'd want in her bed.

Methos gives her a half-smile. "That's a pity." A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision catches his eye and he turns, getting to his feet in the same movement. Nimue's would-be suitor lurches forward, one hand dropping to the hilt of a long knife. He's an inch or two shorter than Methos, but bulkier, and clearly thinks that he'll have no trouble getting his way. Methos steps into the man's space, letting the cold emptiness that had driven Death creep into his eyes.

"Go ahead," he tells the man. "Draw your blade and see what happens. You won't like it."

The man snorts, and gestures for his friends to join him - one or two of which are sober enough to be scared by Owain, but not frightened enough to know when retreat is the better part of valour.

Nimue shakes her head slightly, rising from her own seat with grace, and stepping around to stand next to Owain. "Really, must we demonstrate why superior numbers do not mean a tactical advantage?" she asks softly, with a smile on her face that would look demure on most women.

Methos smiles, the expression as cold and deadly as the edge of a blade. He hopes that Nimue will refrain from anything too showy. He doesn't particularly feel like being burned at the stake today.

"I think a demonstration might be in order," he says, almost pleasantly.

One of the men - likely the most sober of them - blanches, and starts to back off, though his attention is most definitely on Owain rather than Nimue. It suits her just fine, and she lets him flee without comment. Focused instead on the hearth-fire off to the side, and drawing the flame out, letting it creep across the floor toward the men facing her and Owain.

She sighs, shaking her head as the leader of the group draws his knife, a small, pitying smile on her face. "Some people never learn, do they, Owain?" she murmurs, encouraging the fire on the hearth to pop and spit sparks even as flame spreads closer to the now uneasy men behind the man who's still clearly fixated on getting her for himself.

Methos shrugs, unconcerned. "If they don't, they die." He draws his sword, the firelight gleaming along the edge.

"Such a waste." Nimue glances over the men, spreading the fire with subtle gestures to slowly encircle them. Other patrons are fleeing, terrified and unsuspecting that the fire has a supernatural origin. Or at least unsuspecting enough that she and Owain will be gone before they think to attempt a burning. "Or perhaps not, considering the quality of these men."

The first man narrows his eyes and brings his knife to bear. Methos is already there, his own blade turning the blow. The man isn't entirely unskilled - but he's mortal, and not even close to being a match for Methos. It takes only two passes to disarm him, and one to disarm the more belligerent of his friends. Methos' fourth stroke opens his belly, and he stumbles backward, hands going to the wound, trying and failing to hold in his intestines.

Nimue flares the flames that now encircle them, keeping the men from fleeing even as the building around them catches. She's not worried about herself or Owain - getting them out is simple enough, for all that it will attract attention. If they leave the village swiftly enough after, and she refrains from using magic to keep them concealed as they leave, it shouldn't draw any sorcerers to them.

"I think it's time for us to leave, Owain. I am sorry about the abrupt necessity of it." Nimue gives Owain a small smile, gesturing slightly at the flames that wreath the building, her sorcerer's ring glinting across the back of her hand. "I do think they'll be too busy worrying about the fire, though, to worry about two strangers who leave in the chaos."

"After you," Methos says, without taking his eyes off of the last man, who's backing up, terror in his eyes. It wakes old instincts that had started to fade into the background, and he doesn't want to let the man go. He steps forward and runs the man through, the wound fatal, but not instantly. The flames can have these, too.

Nimue frowns slightly, though she says nothing about Owain's actions, having intended to allow the fire to consume all of their attackers, along with the tavern. Certainly his actions are somewhat kinder than her own, for all that they make her uneasy.

"This way," she says instead, clearing a narrow path through the flames that will close behind them, and leave no escape for anyone left trapped - not that there are any of the bystanders who'd fled at the signs of trouble. She's not a monster to court the death of those who haven't attempted to harm her. No matter that her ruthlessness in her own defense makes certain other sorcerers uneasy.

Methos bends down and wipes his blade clean on the first man's cloak before sheathing it and following Nimue through the flames. Once out in the cool night air, he takes a deep breath, locking Death back away in the dark recesses of his mind. The stables are still untouched by the fire, but he can hear the horses panicking inside, so he turns and starts in that direction. He's never been terribly fond of walking.

"Come on," he tells Nimue. "Do you have a horse in there?" If she doesn't, he'll help himself to one of the others, since in their panic the mortals seem to have left the animals behind to burn.

"Yes." Nimue frowns at the fact the horses are still in the stable, and follows Owain swiftly. "A pack-horse, rather than one suited for riding, but still mine." She keeps the flames away from the stable with subtle gestures and a force of will. "Though if the mundanes will insist upon leaving them, I may well acquire myself a riding horse as well."

"You might as well," Methos agrees, summoning a faint smile. It's been nearly ten years since he last let Death have his way, and it's proving harder to put him away than Methos had expected. Part of him - a large part - wants nothing more than to spread the fire to the rest of the village, and to put its people to the sword. Instead, he pushes open the stable doors and starts opening the stalls, letting the terrified animals loose. His own horse is battle trained, and therefore not as frightened as the others, so he grabs one for Nimue first, a roan mare he'd admired when stabling his own animal. Only then does he turn to the dark grey stallion he himself rides, taking the beast's halter and leading both horses out of the stable.

Nimue allows Owain to pick a riding horse for her, as she's not had a horse to ride since she was a girl, and her father had supplied her horse. Instead, she focuses on calming her pack horse, and getting the mare out of the stable. The packs she'd had in the stall with the horse she abandons without much concern - the contents are replaceable, as are the packs themselves, far more so than the horse.

Once they and the horses are free of the stable, Methos turns to Nimue.

"How well do you ride?" He'd remembered to grab his own tack and saddle out of sheer reflex, but if she's not particularly skilled, she'll need them more than he will. The Horsemen had made do with folded blankets, when they'd bothered with saddles at all, and he can ride bareback as easily as he can otherwise.

"I've not ridden in over two decades, since I left my father's estate. I've not had the means to purchase a riding horse, nor the desire to do so. If I do not mind attracting attention, after all, I have means of travel that do not require I ride or walk." Nimue lets a small smile touch her face. "I do, though, prefer to walk, as it allows me to lead a pack horse with more than I might carry on my own."

"You can use my gear, then." Methos swings the saddle onto the mare's back and starts tightening the various straps. "I've spent most of my life on horseback, and saddles are a relatively recent invention."

The mortals have started to come out of their houses, drawn by the fire, and the fear of losing the entire village. For a moment, Methos half-expects Kronos to come around the corner of the burning inn, with Silas and Caspian bickering a few steps behind. He shakes his head, banishing the memory, and finishes saddling Nimue's mare.

"Let's go," he says, offering her a leg up. "Before they notice us." If they do, he'll probably have to fight his way clear, and he'd prefer not to feed that part of himself any more than he already has.

Accepting the assistance, Nimue swings into the saddle with a small amount of awkwardness that she thinks will settle out as they travel, before reaching for the lead of her pack horse. "If I must, I can disguise our leave-taking with magic, but I agree, we ought to leave as quickly as we might."

Methos swings himself up onto his horse's back and digs his heels in, wheeling the animal around and heading for the woods, wanting to get out of sight before the mortals notice them and he has to start cutting them down. He glances back to be sure that Nimue is keeping up, and doesn't stop until he's out of earshot. Then he reins in and dismounts, leaning against his horse's flank and closing his eyes, still trying to banish Death, and the memories he'd brought back with him.

Tugging her pack animal behind her, Nimue leans over the neck of her horse, pelting after Owain into the relative safety of the trees. When he dismounts, she frowns, drawing her horse in close, and watching him with concern. "Are you all right?"

Nimue's voice cuts through the fog of memory, and Methos takes a deep breath before nodding. The air no longer reeks of smoke, or burnt flesh, and the absence of those smells helps as well.

"I will be," he assures her. "It's just - at my age, memory can be a trap all of its own." He can hear the rueful note in his own words and is glad of it. Death never regrets anything, and wouldn't show it if he did.

Nimue gives him a wry smile, and nods. "I shall have to keep that in mind, should I ever find I live a truly long life." Something she hopes will happen, though she truly has no idea. Particularly after her shouting match with Merlin, as she's not entirely certain he didn't do anything to her. "Shall we travel on north, then, though it is a rainy night?"

Methos nods, and pulls himself back up onto his horse.

"At least for another mile or so. It's dangerous to ride blindly through the woods in the dark, though. A broken neck would only inconvenience me, but it would kill one of the horses, and I don't know how it would affect you. Another mile should take us out of immediate danger, though. If we've gone that far, any pursuit will think we kept going. If there is any pursuit. Rome did take most of the laws with them when they left, as well as those who enforced them, and the villagers will have more to worry about than chasing us." He starts his horse into a walk, glad that his haste to escape the village hadn't cost the animal a broken leg or neck.

"The fire, for one." Nimue nudges her horse into motion, pacing alongside Owain's. "At least there won't be a way to tell it was magically fed by the time a sorcerer might arrive - not with the rain, and the fire itself. Cleansing, both." She turns her face up slightly, letting the steady rain softly rinse away the hints of soot and the smell of smoke.

"Good." Methos looks balefully up at the rain anyway. Cleansing or no, the weather on this bloody island is terrible. It makes him miss the desert, and even the humidity of Rome. At least there it's warm.

Nimue turns her head when Owain speaks, in time to see him turn his head up toward the sky. She can't see his expression, but the tone of his voice makes her think his expression isn't entirely a happy one, and she chuckles, gathering the reins in one hand so she can poke him gently in the shoulder with the other. "No gloom tonight about the weather, Owain. It's nothing unusual, and at least it's not as cold as it might be in a couple of months." Her voice is light, and laced with a hint of amusement.

"All of which makes things that much worse," Methos says sourly. "I should have gone back to Rome when the legions did. Or maybe Africa. Someplace where this sort of weather *isn't* normal."

"And then you never would have met me." Nimue sighs, drawing her horse to a halt, waiting for Owain to do the same. "Is it truly the weather that has you turning so gloomy, Owain? Or are your memories holding you too closely yet?" It worries her, that they might do so, and steal away the entertaining and interesting dinner companion of earlier. And perhaps, too, she should lay some blame in the fight that was forced by a drunken idiot and her reluctance to draw too much attention with profligate use of magic.

"It will pass. Though I'm genuinely not a fan of this sort of weather. I've spent most of my life in warmer, drier climates, and for good reason." He summons up a smile. "Come with me back to one. Let the two sides cut each other to pieces, then deal as you will with what's left afterwards."

Nimue can hear the change a smile makes to his voice, and she lets an echoing one cross her face, and seep into her own voice. "I think I would like that, though it shall be strange to me to be where there is more sun than rain." Strange, but new and interesting, and worth the doing.

"Any preferences as to location?" Methos asks. He personally doesn't care, so long as they leave Western Europe and its weather behind them, and he can rejoin civilization again - for the little bit of time this particular incarnation of it has left, with Rome's light fading and nothing rising to take its place.

"I've never left the isle, and I've precious little knowledge of what other lands are like, as more than what I've heard from travellers and from the books my father kept. And they spoke more of people than of places." Nimue shrugs, though the gesture is not as visible as it would be in daylight. "I'll go where you lead, in this much."

"In that case, I suggest we start with a trip to Rome. From there, the whole of the Empire will be open to us, and the wider world as well." Methos smiles. "For all that Rome is just another city, there's still never been a city like her. And that's just the beginning."

Nimue grins, and laughs, nudging her horse a little closer to Owain. "I always did think I might wish to see Rome. We should be sure not to pass by that village again, though, along the way. I wouldn't care for them to remember either of us, after tonight."

"We'll start east from here, then," Methos decides, "and take ship for Gaul when we reach the coast." He makes a face. "I hate ships even more than I hate being rained on, but it can't be helped. After we reach Gaul, though, we'll proceed overland. There will be more to see and no chance of ship-wreck, both positive things in my opinion."

"It's possible to ensure there will be fair winds and otherwise uneventful passage over the water, though I'm afraid that would be enough to attract attention." Nimue had once delighted in keeping the weather where she resided in the patterns she wished, with gloriously sunshine days and gentle rains at night to soak the ground and grow the crops. That much had ended when she'd left her father's castle, her brother uneasy with her talents and unwilling to give her the same haven their father had.

"As pleasant as that would be, then, let's avoid attracting attention. You're not the only one who needs to keep a low profile." The last information Methos had on Kronos placed the latter in the steppes of the Far East, riding with one of the Tatar hordes, but that had been five years earlier. Kronos could be anywhere, and that made caution as necessary as breathing. Once they reached the Continent, Methos could find one of the local Watcher chapterhouses and get whatever recent information they had on his wayward brother, but until then, attracting attention of any sort was a bad idea.

Nimue tilts her head in acknowledgement, though she doesn't ask who he needs to hide from. "How close to you do your enemies need to be before you recognize them for who they are?" Or what they are, since she doesn't know if whatever he is beyond mundane has the sort of sensitivity to others of the same sort that hers does, for all that hers is reliant on others doing something to attract attention.

"If I'm close enough to identify them, they're close enough to identify me," Methos admits. "We can sense one another from a distance, though not a particularly great distance -- a few hundred feet, let's say -- and once that happens, it becomes very difficult to avoid a confrontation, one that's very likely to become violent."

Nimue wrinkles her nose in distaste, though she knows Owain can't see the gesture. "To what end? A war of ideals, like Merlin and Morgana?"

"No. Not ideals. I fight to survive, not to impose my ideas of morality on anyone else." Methos laughs shortly, but there's no amusement in the sound. "Some of the worst things I've ever seen were done in the name of good, or in the name of the gods."

"Everyone for themselves, then?" Nimue lets a corner of her mouth quirk up in a wry smile. "An unfortunate way to have to survive." She lets out a quiet sigh, tugging at the reins of her horse. "Speaking of such, I suspect we are far enough now from the village that no one will look for us, if they have the time to search at all. It is as good a place to camp until it is light as any in this forest."

"Agreed. Pushing on through this forest in the dark is a good way for one of the horses to break a leg." Methos dismounts and ties the horses to a convenient tree before going round to help Nimue dismount as well.

"Do you want a fire?" he asks.

"No, though I thank you for the thought." Nimue swings a leg over her horse, gladly accepting Owain's offered hands to steady her as she slides off. "I can set cantrips for trouble - they're small enough no one's likely to notice the magic use, and they'll let us sleep without need for fire or keeping watch."

"That comes in handy," Methos says, turning to the packhorses and taking down first her bedroll and then his own. He sets them up in the most even patch of ground he can find, then turns back to the horses and finishes unloading them and rubbing them down. 

"If we get going early," he tells Nimue once he's finished, "we should reach the coast by noon, and Gaul by nightfall." Crossing to his bedroll, he drops down onto it, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand, watching her. "Do you mind if I ask why you decided to uproot your entire life and come with me? Don't get me wrong; I'm glad you did. I'm just curious as to why now. I can't believe I'm the only man who's ever offered to take you away from it all." He grinned at her, his tone lightly teasing.

Nimue takes care of her new mare while Owain tends to the packhorses, making sure she's tethered where she can find grass, and rubbed down, then walks the perimeter of the camp, her ring glowing across the back of her hand as she sets the cantrips. Only once it's safe does she sit on her bedroll and remove her boots, glancing over as Owain speaks.

"I left my home twenty years ago and have never settled since. I don't think I'm uprooting myself now." Nimue grins back at him, indulging herself in a tiny light, the plasma glowing a gentle blue no brighter than a candle. Better to see Owain's expression, as well as hear the smile in his voice. "The last man to offer me shelter without thinking he would bed me for it wanted something else of me that I couldn't give. You didn't ask anything of me, and don't appear to want anything now. It's nice to not have a man expecting me to become someone else for his sake."

"The only thing I want from you is your company," Methos assures her. "I've never spent time around a sorceress before. Usually I avoid magic even more assiduously than I do the plague; after all, I'm immune to the plague. Magic, on the other hand, I'm not so sure of."

"I've not met anyone who cannot be effected by magic, in some way or another. There may be spells which don't do much to affect you by virtue of what they are and what you are, but I doubt all magic is ineffective." Nimue nudges the little plasma ball toward Owain. "It shouldn't burn, but it might tickle, one that small. Larger ones will burn, but they're meant to."

Methos reaches out to touch the ball, then jerks his hand back at the prickling feeling in his fingers.

"Remind me not to get in the way of any of the larger ones, then," he says, shaking out his hand.

Nimue giggles, tugging the plasma ball back to her, watching the shadows shift with its movement. "I expect it would be an unpleasant way to die. I can catch them, and dissipate them, but I can't promise it would be fast enough if there's more than one sorcerer present."

"Even if I were to be killed that way, I'm fairly sure I'd return to life in short order." A speculative expression crosses his face. "In fact, it might be worth finding out just how long returning to life from something like that would actually take."

Blinking, Nimue looks down at her little light before looking back at Owain. "This is only one way magic has to kill, though most usually involve other things being manipulated by magic to cause the death." She rolls the plasma ball over her fingers a moment, quiet. "Do you want to know now?"

"If that's the most likely way I'd be attacked by magic -- and it won't attract any attention -- then yes," Methos says seriously. "Knowing how long it will take me to return to life in those circumstances could save both our lives, should we come under attack from any of your kind. Should we come under attack from any of my kind, run. They probably won't be interested in you."

"I don't like the idea of running simply to save my skin at the expense of someone else. Perhaps just get out of easy range?" Nimue contemplates the bit of plasma, thinking about how close someone would need to be in order to sense it, dependent on their strength. Really, if anyone's that close, they probably are already searching for whoever caused the fire at the tavern.

"If anyone's close enough to sense this, they'll already know a sorcerer is nearby, and be looking. It will just tell them where to look." Nimue takes a deep breath, making the plasma ball larger. "You might not want to be on your bedroll when I do this, unless you're planning to buy new blankets soon."

Methos gets to his feet and crosses the clearing to stand as far from his bedroll as he can comfortably be.

"Oka -- no, wait," he says. "How much damage is this likely to do to my clothing?"

Nimue bites her lip, letting out a quiet laugh. "You might want to remove anything you don't want to lose, actually." It's never been a concern before, but then, she's never done this sort of thing when she's not using it to survive before. It doesn't really matter what happens to someone she's not planning to see again.

"Good to know," Methos says calmly, and begins stripping down, removing everything save his clout. "I apologize for the show," he continues, "but I don't have so much clothing as to be able to throw it away just to satisfy my own curiosity and society's demands for propriety." He piles his clothing on his bedroll and stands clear.

"All right," he says. "Go ahead."

Taking a deep breath, Nimue flicks her wrist, sending the now-large plasma ball arrowing across the clearing to where Owain stands, the blue fire engulfing him once it reaches him. Greedy fingers wrap around and eat through flesh, and Nimue makes herself keep breathing, keep watching, as it consumes Owain nearly to the bone before winking out. Waiting with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach for Owain to heal as he had said, though she can't force herself to watch his charred corpse for signs of rejuvenation.

The pain is exquisite, so much so that the only thing keeping Methos from screaming is the fact that he can't breathe. It lasts for long, agonized moments while the light washes through him, consumes him, and he gives himself gratefully up to the darkness.

Light and life return in a gasp that's almost a shriek. Methos isn't sure how long he'd been gone. The pain is still gnawing at his insides, but he forces himself to breathe evenly and it finally eases, washing further away with every breath until it's gone. The relief is so overwhelming as to be a pleasure in and of itself.

"I don't think we need to test that one any more," Methos says, trying to keep his tone light and easy, once he can speak without his voice shaking. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough for the rain to stop." Nimue looks back over, her own voice unsteady, holding up another simple light so she can look over Owain and make sure he's returned whole, at least in body. "I don't know that I ever want to use that again. Are you all right?" She can't see any lingering traces of the plasma fire, and she finally manages to drag her gaze up to meet his, studying his face to see if there's any sense of pain or regret or resentment.

"I'm fine," Methos assures her, standing up and stretching out the last lingering aches in his body. "I apologize if I asked something of you that made you uncomfortable." Turning back to the pile of his clothing, he gets dressed, glad to be once again protected from the damp, chilly night.

"It might not have, if I had turned away." Nimue pulls her knees up to her chest, taking in a shuddering breath. "I've never stayed to see what happens to someone struck by one of those. Flung them at a sorcerer who's too interested, perhaps even several of them one after another, but then I've fled. I'm not interested in fighting them, just keeping them distracted long enough to leave."

"I'm not interested in fighting anyone either," Methos admits. "Not any more." He lowers himself back down to his bedroll and spreads out comfortably. "It used to be all I cared about, once. Now -- well, I suppose I've just grown up."

Nimue lets out a hollow laugh. "I wish everyone else would." She draws in a deep breath, making herself lay down, though she still curls up in a tight ball. "Move on at first light?"

"That sounds good to me," Methos agrees. He closes his eyes and it isn't long before he's dozing, dreams flickering fitfully before his mind's eye as sleep reaches out to claim him.

He sleeps restlessly, waking at least once an hour to listen to the forest around him: birds singing, animals rustling around in the undergrowth, and the last time he wakes up dawn is beginning to creep into the sky from the east.

Methos gets out of his bedroll and puts it away before opening another pack, this one containing food and cookware. He starts a fire in the center of the clearing and starts breakfast -- in this case, porridge -- before going to wake Nimue.

Listening to Owain move around, Nimue hopes he won't notice she didn't actually sleep last night, though she stayed curled in a ball in her blankets. She waits, though, until his hand touches her shoulder to open her eyes, blinking in the pale light of dawn. "Is it morning already?"

"It is. Breakfast is ready, too." Methos waits until Nimue is sitting up, then hands her a plate and a bowl. "Here; I made porridge." It's nothing fancy, but it's a hot meal, and should help to banish the rest of the lingering chill of the night.

"Thank you." Nimue had smelled the food cooking, but couldn't quite bring herself to rouse from her blankets for it. Even now, she picks at it for a long moment before making herself eat it all. Food does her no good if she doesn't eat it, even if it does taste like so much ash at the moment. "It's quite good."

"I'm glad you like it," Methos says, settling down to eat his own breakfast. It doesn't take them long, and neither does the washing up. Methos re-packs the saddlebags and re-saddles Nimue's horse, and it isn't long before they're ready to go. Methos helps Nimue back onto her mare before mounting his own gelding, and he leads them off in the direction of the coast road.

"I want to stay off the main road," he tells her as they ride along. "We have two horses with us whose owners might be on that road, looking for them. I don't like being hanged for a horse thief, and I'm willing to bet that you'd enjoy it even less than I would."

Nimue stares out at the forest around them as they ride, vaguely listening to Owain, a small, wan smile coming to her face. "I'll gladly avoid that, thank you." She is certain there are ways to make it unlikely, but at the moment, none of the ones she might have used before have any real appeal. "Best to avoid it, yes."

As the sun climbs above the horizon, it also climbs up above the layers of clouds scudding grey across the sky, the day dawning overcast and with a steady drizzling rain that Methos knows will have both him and Nimue soaked to the skin by the time they reach the coast.

"We'll cross to Calais," he says after an hour or so of riding. "I have a friend there who will gladly put us up for the night, and ensure that we start tomorrow warm, dry, and better fed than we did today."

"Warm would be a wonderful thing, and dry as well." She can keep herself dry and warm with magic, but what's the point when she'd attract unwanted attention? "I'm not terribly worried about the quality of the food, so long as it is edible and there is enough of it."

Tilting her head back, Nimue contemplates the clouds and the rain coming from them for a long moment. Clearing them away would attract far too much attention, however tempting it is to see the sun again. Sun to warm her through and chase the shadows of the night away from her mind.

"That much I can certainly promise." Methos scowls up at the rain for a moment, then shrugs it off. Complaining about it will only bring the annoyance ever more firmly to the forefront of his mind, so he decides to ignore it instead. "That, and that we'll have a chance to get warm before crossing the Channel. We're taking the same route back out into Gaul that I took into Britain four days ago." He'd been bringing a message for a man in Londinium, and was carrying the reply safely memorized inside his own skull. 

Nimue looks back down from the sky to smile at Owain. "Are you still certain you'd rather I not keep the weather pleasant for the crossing?" She will leave the weather alone for now, but perhaps if she lets Merlin and Morgana see her leaving Britain they will not give chase until they're done arguing with each other.

"If you can keep anyone from noticing, I would be very glad indeed of a pleasant crossing. I was miserably seasick the entire way over, and have been expecting to feel just as ill on the way back, so you can probably guess at the extent of my gratitude."

Keeping someone from noticing isn't actually possible, but Nimue knows she can at least keep most others at bay. It will have to be enough for now. "Fair winds, then, and a following sea, we shall have. Though I shall leave the rain for now, as little as I like it. Better to avoid notice later if I don't make a show of myself now."

Methos pulls his cloak more warmly around himself and settles in for a wet ride. 

"Let's pick up the pace a bit," he suggests, using his heels to encourage his horse into a trot. "How well do you ride?" From what he's seen, she's skilled enough that he won't have to worry about her should they need to gallop, but he'd still like to hear her assessment of her own skills.

"I will be very uncomfortable after today, I think, but I won't fall off on good ground. It's been twenty years since I rode, and while it's apparently not easily forgotten, it's not something I am as familiar with any longer." Nimue hasn't been able to afford to ride and have a pack-horse, and it's always the pack-horse that's been more important to her, the better to carry everything she can.

"Let me know if you start to get too sore or uncomfortable, then," Methos says, letting his horse settle into a slightly slower trot. "We're close enough to the coast that we'll reach Gaul by nightfall even if we don't push ourselves very hard. Keep an eye out for signs of settlement, too; I'd like to get a saddle here in Britain. The ones they make in Gaul aren't as good." They ride in silence for a few minutes, then Methos asks, "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?" She doesn't look old enough to have both learned how to ride and then forgotten it as well, though she does seem old enough for that to be possible. 

"Weren't you the one who said it's not polite to ask someone's age?" Nimue smiles to take the sting out of her words, though it fades quickly enough. "Everyone who I knew as a child is dead from war or childbirth or age. My brother's son is no doubt grown, married, and with children of his own, if not grandchildren. I have not seen age touch my face or my hair in all that time. Though I was only twenty when I had that awful argument with Merlin, and it's been thirty years since then. Twenty since my father died, and I left his estate to my brother and nephew."

"Interesting. You're immortal, then, though not in the same way that I am. Were you and I the same kind, we would be able to sense one another. As things stand now, however, I wouldn't want to risk your life by experimenting to see just how far your immortality goes. Was there some sort of occurrence in your life that made you stop aging? For my kind, it's a death that stops the aging process, but a death that one recovers from. I'd be interested to know whether the magic made you immortal, or if the immortality caused your magic."

"I don't know. A sorcerer has a longer life span than a mundane might, but I don't know how long that's meant to be. And I don't know if Merlin did something when we argued, or afterward, before he left. He has knowledge others do not, and that he does not share, to effect life and death." Nimue draws a deep breath, barely keeping from closing her eyes for a moment - something that would be foolish at anything faster than a walk. "Magic is not something so simple, for all it looks it."

"If it were easy, everyone would be doing it," Methos says, smiling faintly at his own joke. "How likely do you think it is that this Merlin did something to you?"

"He wanted me to understand that he was right, that we must serve others to be true to magic. I would have been surprised if he didn't do something to attempt to make me adhere to his point of view, though I don't see what a terribly long life could do to make me be a 'servant of the greater good'." Nimue scoffs, shaking her head. "I am who I am, and I am no one's servant, much less to any man's whims or desires."

"The more you tell me about Merlin, the more sure I am that I don't want to meet him," Methos says mildly. "I have problems with the phrase 'the greater good', and with people who try to use it as an excuse to make you do things their way."

"Perhaps he will learn, but I do not care to meet again myself, not until he has learned better that perhaps there are more ways in the world to be." Nimue sighs. "I'd rather hear of places we are going than talk of where I've been. What is Gaul like?"

"Roman life there is more civilized than it is here in Britain. Here it's little more than an army camp. Gaul's been part of the empire for much longer, though. The various Romans who help administer the country have brought their wives and their children and their entertainments from home. There are amphitheaters for the games, playhouses, poetry-readings... all sorts of things. My friend will be glad to have us for a week or so; that will give me a chance to resupply. Then, after that, I was thinking we could go on to Rome."

"As I said last night, lead and I will follow in this. It is all of it new, once we have crossed the seas." Nimue shrugs, leaning forward over her mare's neck, and keeping a watch on the ground in front.

"It's been centuries since I last had the chance to show someone the world," Methos says, smiling. "She was from Britain too, and newly-Immortal. My sort of Immortal. Maybe after this is all over, I'll introduce the two of you." Cierdwyn would like Nimue, Methos was sure of that. 

Nimue smiles, and nods, thinking that it would be nice to meet a woman who has the same longevity that Owain has. "I thank you for that consideration." She tilts her head toward the way ahead. "Shall we go a little faster, at least for a bit? The sooner we're to that lodging this side of the seas, the sooner we shall be warm and dry to face the crossing."

"Let's," Methos agrees, and urges his horse into a canter.   They ride in near-silence for the next few hours, and just as the sun is reaching its zenith, they crest the top of a hill and can see the ocean spreading down and away in front of them.  At the bottom of the hill is the beach, and there are two ships standing at anchor out in the water.  There is also a sizable inn, which promises warmth and dryness in addition to a hot lunch.

Nimue is glad to see the inn, though more for the chance to get off her horse than for the rest of what it promises. An afternoon and a night to rest, and then a clear morning for the crossing with the tide. She smiles, and looks over at Owain, laughing with delight. "I shan't race you, though I am sorely tempted. It would be embarrassing to lose my seat now, when we're so close to a rest for the day."

"Some other time," Methos agrees. "We have at least two hours before the ship will be ready to sail. You can get warm and dry and eat something while I get the horses re-shod and see if the blacksmith has an extra saddle for sale."

"I thought we were waiting on the morning to cross?" Nimue frowns a moment, before shaking her head. Perhaps she had been mistaken in that, or wishful thinking after a night without rest. "No matter. It will be no hardship to clear the skies while we wait for the tide and the ship."

After she has eaten, though she had hoped to have a chance to sleep - or attempt to sleep - before working at the weather.

"We can wait until morning if you'd prefer," Methos offers, smiling at the reminder of the clear Channel crossing Nimue had promised. "It will mean that I can allow the smith to take his time with the horses. On the other hand, I'd rather get the... new horses... off of British soil sooner rather than later."

A wry smile twists the corners of Nimue's mouth. "True enough. I shall work to clear the skies after I've had lunch. It will be clear enough, if perhaps not as calm as I had hoped to make it, before things are ready to sail."

"In that case, let me get you settled at the inn and I'll head to the blacksmith's." They rode into the small courtyard in front of the inn, and Methos dismounted, tossing his reins to a waiting stable boy, and turned to help Nimue down out of her saddle. 

"Get the saddlebags and the saddle off of these horses," Methos tells the stable boy. "I'm going to get my sister settled, and then you can help me lead them to the smithy." Turning, he offered Nimue his arm.

"Sister, dear?" Calling her that ensured that she was seen to have a protector, and meant that Methos could leave her at the inn without having to worry that she'll have to expose herself as a sorceress should she need to defend herself.

"My wife will see to your sister," the innkeeper offered, coming out into the courtyard with said wife in tow. "And I will be happy to send my stable boy to the smithy with your horses. The smith will bring them back when he's finished."

"I'll take care of it myself, but thank you." Methos doubted that the stable boy would be able to get the smith to work as fast as Methos needed. "Sister, I'll return as quickly as I can."

Nimue smiles, and chuckles, tilting her head to Owain. "Good. I would not wish to miss the crossing because you were waylaid." She waves off the offer to take her cloak, gesturing toward the inside of the inn with her off-hand to keep their attention on it rather than on the faint glow of her sorcerer's ring on her other hand. "Please, all I need is a good meal and a place to sit in quiet where there's a fire to dry myself at."

And time alone to work the clearing of the weather that she wants for the crossing without it becoming too apparent that something more than good fortune is at work. It's not been so long as the rumors of the fair days and gentle rains of her father's lands will have faded entirely from memory.

* * *

To Methos' relief, the smithy was occupied only by the smith rather than by earlier customers, and by promising extra Methos received the assurance that his horses would be ready before either of the ships in the harbor was ready to sail. Leaving the horses with the blacksmith, Methos heads towards the harbor, and the waterfront dive closest to the beach in search of a ship's captain.

* * *

"This way, then, my lady." The innkeeper's wife leads Nimue inside, through a crowded and boisterous common room, and into a private dining room with a fire crackling merrily on the hearth where she can recline while she eats if she so chooses. "I'll send your lord brother back to you when he arrives. What would you like to eat?"

"Whatever is swiftest served, and warm." Nimue removes her cloak herself, hanging it over one of the low benches. "And wine, if you have any, ale if not." She keeps herself turned so it won't be obvious that the netting across the back of her hand is glowing rather than reflecting fire-light, the ring warm against her skin as she works at the weather.

Outside, the clouds begin to break and clear, the first rays of sunlight scattering across the landscape and glinting off the waves on the sea. The skies won't be entirely clear before they cross, but Nimue is certain it will at least be a dry and swift crossing.

By the time Methos has spoken to a ship's captain and booked passage for two people and four horses across to Calais, the sun has come out, catching like fire in the raindrops still clinging to the grass. The innkeeper directs him to the private dining room in which Nimue is eating, promising him a bowl of the beef stew his wife has already served Nimue. Thanking the man, Methos pushes open the dining room door.

"I see you're already making progress," he says, closing the door behind him. "It's beautiful outside."

"Thank you." Nimue waves a hand at the flagon of wine and the goblets that had been provided. "They have a decent wine, and plenty of it, and the stew is quite good." Anything would be good when she's hungry, and working something as large as the weather-work outside. "Plentiful, too. I think this is my second bowl of it."

"Excellent." Methos pours himself a glass of wine and settles onto one of the couches just as the innkeeper's wife bustles in with a bowl of stew in a trencher of bread and another flagon full of wine. 

Once she's gone, Methos asks, "How much longer do you need to finish what you're doing? The smith will be at least another hour with the horses, so there's no real hurry. I've booked us passage on The King's Glory, but the captain said we can leave with the next tide after we're ready, so there's no rush there either."

"An hour will be good. The skies will be as clear as I can make them, and I can soothe the wind such the seas will not be rough. A swift passage, though, that I can be certain of, for it would be too much to calm the winds enough to make the passage truly unremarkable. Someone will notice the strangeness." They might notice anyway, but without it happening again, it is unlikely anyone will connect it with old rumors soon enough to cause her trouble here.

"I love it when the pieces fall so neatly into place," Methos smiles, then tucks into his stew. It's every bit as good as promised, as is the wine, and Methos eats and drinks his fill while trying not to watch Nimue too obviously

"I hope you don't mind if I continue to call you sister," he says, once he's finished his second bowl of stew and his third glass of wine. "It keeps nosy mortals from prying into things that are none of their business."

"If I'd been offended, I would have said. It rankles that they will think I need a protector, but after today's working, perhaps better than revealing where I have gone to from here to anyone who might look. The traces of this will linger longer than those of the fire last night."

"Is there anybody hunting you at the moment?" Methos asks. As far as he knows, no one is on his trail at the moment, but that information is five months old and its sources even older than that. Kronos could be a mile away and closing fast, for all Methos knows, which is why he's putting such an emphasis on getting to Gaul. Once he has a chance to check at the chapter house there, he'll have a better idea as to what Kronos is up to, and will be able to relax a little more.

"Not that I know of, but working the weather like this? Is not invisible, and there's only one place that had such done so regularly. It's not yet out of mundane memory, even if it is only rumor and the beginnings of legend." Nimue shrugs, finishing a last bite of stew. "Even if someone comes to look, they won't see where I have gone, and they may not believe I've crossed the seas - likely, even, will believe that a ruse to distract and misdirect, for it's known I've never left the isles, nor spoken any desire to."

"Good." Methos takes another sip of wine. "Once we get to Calais, I'm going to have to leave you with my friend for about twelve hours. I have an errand to run when we get there, and I'm afraid I can't bring you with me. There might be someone hunting me, and I need to find out where they are so that we can avoid them."

"And this friend you can trust?" Nimue refills her goblet, looking over at Owain. "I will need to sleep when we get across the seas, and if your friend can be trusted, it will be easier to do so. Else, I shall hope I wake before you return or someone tries to rouse me, and set something a little more than simple cantrips."

"Darius is trustworthy, and I don't say that about my own kind very often. We're lucky that he's in Calais this century. Usually he sticks closer to Paris. As I'm sure you've realized by now, though, immortality of any sort means moving on when mortals start to realize that you're not aging. Darius has run almost every church in Paris in the last hundred years, so he repaired to Calais, where his face would be less familiar."

Being of the church didn't automatically mean trustworthy, but Nimue refrains from saying as much, smiling instead. "It is good to know that he can be trusted." A simpler matter to sleep without worries beyond what her own mind might conjure up to torment her in the night.

"I wouldn't consider leaving you with him if he couldn't be," Methos assures her, draining his wine glass and pouring another.  There's only a little bit left, so he tops off Nimue's glass with it and puts the empty flagon back on the table.  "I trust him even though he's Immortal in the same way that I am, and since the main cause of death for my kind of Immortal is at the hands of another Immortal, that's saying something."

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011.


End file.
